That'll Be the Daye
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Frank is, as always, a good listener.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

**Authors Note: **In the third season episode, "McCormick's Bar and Grill", McCormick's ne'er-do-well, absentee father, Sonny Daye, returns to present his son with the deed to a run-down bar that he won in a shady poker game. Mark and Milt fail to examine the gift horse's teeth properly. Issues arise between Sonny and the former owner, mobster Doyle Madison. Hardcastle eventually has to call in the assistance of his friend, Lieutenant Harper, to help him sort things out. Harper already knows all about Sonny. I've always wondered what and when he was told. (And most of what follows doesn't align with earlier stories I've written.)

**That'll Be the Daye**

by L.M. Lewis

"_Let me get this straight, Milt. We're talking about_

_Sonny Daye. The same Sonny Daye you haven't stopped_

_talkin' about since you and Mark got back from Atlantic City?" _Frank Harper in "McCormick's Bar and Grill"

**October 5, 1984**

Frank Harper wasn't exactly sure what was wrong, or even when he'd first figured out that something _was_ wrong. The evening had all the standard trappings of poker night at Hardcastle's. The usual list of suspects were consuming the usual beers and snacks. The lieutenant would have been hard-pressed to put a finger on what was off.

Mark, who'd become a semi-regular at these gatherings, was just slightly less attentive to the proceedings than usual. He still managed to win his share of the pots, but it wasn't with his typical boisterous enthusiasm. It was only a little after ten when he excused himself and departed. That was obviously too late for a date, and he didn't claim any particular indisposition.

Milt was making every effort to keep up appearances of normality, but he was off his game, too. Frank had started to feel it himself, after a while, the strain of pretending nothing was wrong when something most definitely was.

It came as no surprise then, that the evening broke up early. Hardcastle saw his guests to the door. Mattie managed to remain politely oblivious to the situation, with only an off-handed comment to Milt that she was free for lunch any day the next week or so, while from Charlie came a glance backward and a vague and uncertain nod as he followed her out the door.

Which left Frank, still standing in the front hallway. That wasn't uncommon, either, since there was a standing rule against talking shop at the poker table and he and the judge were inveterate shop-talkers. There was even a small matter Milt had consulted him on a few days back, right before he and Mark had blown out of town on very short notice. Frank fetched it up as justification for not following Charlie out the door.

"That guy you asked me to run a check on last week, the one with the funny name—"

He'd started out casually enough, only to be brought to a full stop by a startled look from Milt, who'd apparently forgotten the request entirely.

Frank waded back in. "You know, Sonny—"

"Daye," Milt finished.

So he hadn't forgotten. Frank gave the matter a quick nod and opened his mouth again.

"Well," Milt said sharply, "turns out it's a dead-end. I don't really need any more info. Sorry to have put you to the trouble."

Frank froze, his mouth still open through the hasty apology, but he didn't even have a chance to say "No problem, anytime" before Milt had shot the quickest of glances over his shoulder and then, leaning in slightly, asked, "Didja find much?"

There'd been no mistaking it, his covert look had been in the direction of the gatehouse, and that, combined with the impressions from earlier that evening, left Frank with an odd unease.

"Not much," he said warily. "It's an alias, looks like."

"A stage name," Milt corrected.

"He's had a lot of stage names." Frank paused, then edged forward. "He's done some time, too. Under another stage name."

"Yeah, I knew that." Milt made a face. It wasn't exactly disgust. Grim acceptance, maybe.

"Looks like he's mostly in New Jersey." Frank paused again. The light was dawning and it was getting suddenly easier to read his friend's face by it. "You and Mark wouldn't have happened to have been there recently, would you?"

This got him a grunt. It was an affirmative grunt that was followed by a brief but awkward silence. Frank knew all about those. He waited patiently for a three-count and then asked politely, "Did you happen to run into Mr. Daye while you were there?"

"Hmm."

At least it wasn't grunt. Something seemed to be simmering just below the surface and looked as if it needed to get out _somehow_. Frank kept his own expression neutral. Milt finally seemed to notice he was still there.

"You got a minute?"

Frank cocked his head. "You kidding? It isn't even midnight. If I go home now, Claudia'll think I lost my whole paycheck with you sharks." He risked a grin.

He was rewarded with a brief smile and then Milt gestured—not toward the den, cluttered with poker accoutrements, but down the hall. Frank preceded him. It was obvious that they were headed for the kitchen, as though the conversation might require a pot of coffee.

Milt said nothing further until they were settled, and the coffee-maker set to brew. Even then he seemed to be taking his time, grabbing mugs off the shelf and half & half from the fridge.

Frank had been starting to think he was just there for silent moral support when the older man finally sat down, exhaled a heavy sigh, and said, apropos of nothing in particular, "Must be the jet lag . . . yeah, it's three a.m. there." He seemed to think that one through for a moment and then added, "It's always three a.m. in Jersey."

"So," Frank said cheerfully, "how was the trip? You never really told me what you and Mark were doing out there." He'd put just the slightest emphasis on Mark's name.

Hardcastle looked pensive. He shrugged. "Aw, overpriced steaks, girls with lots of feathers, second-rate lounge acts . . . you know."

"You can get all that in Las Vegas. Why go all the way to the East Coast?"

Another shrug. "McCormick wanted to see this Sonny Daye character."

"A fan?"

"A son."

Frank had seen it coming. He kept his face arranged and nodded in what looked like no more than polite interest.

"They hadn't been in touch for a while," Milt said flatly. "Twenty-five years."

Frank did the math, discovered X equaled "five years old" and winced. "A divorce?"

"A desertion."

Frank nodded. It made sense in a way, with all the aliases. Those people tended to be light on the legal niceties.

"So how'd it go?" he asked tentatively. "I mean, the big reunion and all—"

Milt snorted. "I'll tell you one thing. McCormick made a smart move just flying out there and surprising him."

"And you along for a referee?"

"Hah, you don't need a ref if the other guy won't come up to the scratch." Milt shook his head. "Nah. No bloodshed. Not even any shouting . . . mighta been better if there'd been some shouting."

Frank thought about that one for a moment and then nodded.

Milt let out a sigh. "More like disinterest. Really, the whole trip would have been a wash if it hadn't been for that mobster, Tommy Sales."

Frank frowned. "'Mobster'?"

"Yeah. He wanted Sonny to bust into a federal judge's safe and retrieve some evidence."

There was a moment of mutual silence and then Frank ventured, "Guess it's true what they say about apples and trees."

Milt scowled. "They're _nothing_ alike." The scowl persisted for a moment and then he resumed the story. "So me and McCormick convinced Sonny to go to the cops, and then Sales grabbed McCormick to put some pressure on Sonny." The scowl returned. "Except that lever wouldn't've worked on ol' Sonny. He was ready to split town as soon as he heard Sales had his kid."

There seemed to be nothing to say to that. That Mark had been present for the evening's poker session was proof that some lever had been applied somewhere, and it didn't take much effort to imagine who'd done it.

As if in answer to Frank's silent supposition, Milt muttered, "I had to lean on him some."

"_Sonny?_" That hadn't been Frank's first guess and Milt's shrug of confirmation brought the whole situation in to sudden focus for the lieutenant. "You mean you got him to crack the _safe_?"

Milt waved that away as essentially irrelevant. "All I'm sayin' is that I shouldn't have had to lean so hard. McCormick's his _son_, for Pete's sake."

Frank considered that for a moment, came to the obvious conclusion, considering who'd been doing the leaning, decided that wouldn't be received too well, and shelved it with a sigh.

Milt gave him a puzzled look that indicated he could not read minds, possibly not even his own.

Frank, still feeling around for an appropriate response, finally latched on to, "But all's well that ends well, right?"

For this he got another grunt, followed by a grumbled, "You might be right about that. As soon as the dust settled and we got McCormick back, Sonny skipped town. No forwarding address, _nothing_." Milt glanced away. It was an evasive, slightly guilty expression accompanied by a stubborn silence. It didn't hold for long before he admitted, "But McCormick might not agree."

It suddenly dawned on Frank that he was being asked for another favor, or at the least for his opinion.

"I think maybe some people shouldn't have kids," he drawled, buying a little time.

"But maybe all kids need a dad," Milt insisted.

"You can put the name on the birth certificate, but you can't make 'em play catch," Frank said flatly. "Look, you want me to run his name again, I'll do it. It might take a while, but guys like that usually show up somewhere eventually. But if you ask me, he's not a keeper."

"You think so?" Milt asked. There was a hint of hope to it, but he sobered sharply and added, "Yeah, but what about McCormick?"

"Oh, _he's _a keeper all right," Frank laughed, playing the misunderstanding for effect. "Anyway, give him some time. I think he'll be okay."

"Without his dad, huh?"

Frank smiled. "With or without."


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

**March 1, 1985**

It should have been poker night and, by merest coincidence, most of the usual suspects had stopped by at some point during the evening to see Hardcastle. But nobody had stayed long, and even though Milt had groused at one point that no one had remembered to bring a pack of cards, it was obvious that he wouldn't have been up to even the modest requirements of shuffling and dealing.

Toward the end of the evening in St. Mary's surgical unit, the sole holdout was Frank Harper. Mark was there, too, but had somehow managed to ingratiate himself to the staff to the point where visiting hours no longer applied.

The desultory conversation between the three gradually wound down to long pauses connected by an occasional word or two. Milt finally dozed off. Mark looked as though he could use a nap himself, but evidently had no intention of going home. Though now that the judge's breathing had evened out and gone deeper, Mark leaned toward Frank and said, "You'll be here for a while?"

Frank glanced up at the clock on the wall, checked it against his wrist watch, and nodded, "Sure. They won't kick me out for another fifteen minutes. If they try, I'll just tell 'em I know you. They gave you the key to the place, huh?"

Mark managed a self-deprecating smile. "Believe it or not, my being here cuts down on the rest of the traffic. I make some of the company nervous."

Frank gave that a moment's consideration. He really couldn't argue with it, seeing as he'd run his own background check on McCormick only a year-and-a-half earlier, the same day Milt had told him he'd maneuvered yet another ex-con into his custody.

Mark seemed to mistake the pause. "I just need to stretch my legs and grab a cup of coffee—won't take long."

"Oh," Frank startled, "nah, just thinking. Take your time. Claudia figured I'd stay till last call. Anyway," he glanced back at Milt, "looks like he's down for the count."

Mark followed his gaze with one of his own, nodded briefly, and got up—a little slow and stiff. "I won't be long."

He'd just departed, and Frank was reaching for a hot-rod magazine that had been left on the nightstand, when he heard Milt's breathing hitch. He didn't have a chance to be alarmed by the change, though, before he saw the man's eyes were open. Frank also noticed they were focused on the door, and his whole appearance was a lot more alert than he would have expected for a guy dozing off his pain meds.

The lieutenant gestured in that direction. "Mark just stepped out. Coffee, I think."

"Uh huh," Milt grunted. "Not getting enough sleep." He darted his eyes toward the door again and then dropped his voice even further. "Listen, something I keep forgettin' to ask you." He frowned. It was the pain meds, most likely, and he might have forgotten whatever it was once again. "Oh, yeah," the frown hadn't eased up any, "'bout McCormick, I was wondering . . ."

This time the wandering-off seemed more like reluctance than forgetfulness. Frank waited out the long pause and finally asked, "What about him? Everything seems okay, doesn't it?"

Things might have been a long way from okay, but Milt nodded gingerly anyway. "Yeah, he's okay. Not sleeping. Worries too much. I think his shoulder's still bothering him."

"From Arizona?

"Yeah. Which he will say is 'small potatoes'—like there's a good way to be shot. Humph." He shook his head, again gingerly, and then lumbered on. "I was just wondering if he'd asked you for any help with anything."

Frank's eyes narrowed. They're been some sticky business with the parole board over Weed Randall's shooting. Mark hadn't so much asked for help as had his worries pried out of him. Frank wasn't sure how much of this Milt knew, or needed to know.

"I was wondering if he maybe asked you to look up Sonny Daye," Milt said at hardly more than a mutter.

"His _dad_? Why the hell would you think he'd be doing that?" Frank looked at him askance. He thought it had to be the meds. "Anyway, I think he's been kinda busy the past few days."

Hardcastle looked puzzled. "Nah, I mean before all this."

Frank was still pondering whether he should tell Mark that Milt wasn't hitting on all cylinders. He almost missed the latest segue. He looked up sharply. "'Before'? Like when?"

"After Arizona. Ya know, The Modifieds."

It had only been a matter of a few weeks, but all the disasters that had followed on after it had nearly obliterated Mark's moment in the winner's circle. Frank nodded, though he still hadn't figured out where all this was going.

"I just wondered," Milt said, his eyes drifting briefly to half-mast. "He said something once, back then. Last year. Ah," his eyes closed for a half second but were open again before he went on, "he said he always pictured running into him; maybe his dad would be some kinda big-shot and he'd've just won the Indy 500. Something like that."

"I don't think Sonny's ever gonna be a big shot," Frank speculated. "He's a little too old even to make a run at the wall of the post office."

"Yeah, well," Milt sighed, his lids drifting down again, "I know the Modifieds isn't the Brickyard, either, but I just thought, well . . ."

"No, he's never come to me. Not once."

Milt's eyes were closed. Another moment passed before he spoke again. "If he did, though—"

"I don't think—"

"Just listen to me, will ya?" Milt said wearily.

Frank shut his mouth and kept his eyes on the doorway.

"I'm just sayin', if he did come to you, don't give him a hard time, okay. Just look the guy up and tell McCormick what he wants to know."

"What if he's back inside somewhere?" Frank said pointedly.

There was a moment of silent consideration and then Milt pried his eyes open again. "Anybody ever tell you you're a pessimist?"

"It's in my job description."

Milt snorted and then winced. Mark chose that moment to walk back in, a Styrofoam cup in either hand. "None for you," he said in Hardcastle's direction, "but the nurse says you can have one of those protein shakes if you want. Lucky guy."

Frank thought Milt had done a pretty good job of not looking guilty. The shadow of the wince was still there, though, and Mark seemed to hone in on it, then shot a sharp, questioning look in the lieutenant's direction.

"I made a joke. Sorry." Frank tried to look contrite.

"Hmm." Mark handed him his coffee, put his own down on the nightstand, and reached for the nurse's call button that was hanging down the side of the bed. As he was tucking that back where it belonged there was a melodious chime from the overhead speakers and a recorded message of a calm voice reminded them that it was nine p.m. and visiting hours were officially over.

"Looks like my cue." Frank got to his feet, coffee cup still in his hand. "I better hit the road. Hope you're feeling better, Milt."

Mark stepped back from the bed and cocked his head, as if surveying the man lying there. Then he picked up his own cup of coffee and said, "Wait up, will ya, Frank? I'll walk you out."

There might have been a brief look of surprise from the judge but it was quickly replaced with something moderately approving.

"Yeah, well," Mark shrugged, "you've been telling me I need to get some sleep and I forgot tomorrow is garbage pick-up. Gotta get the cans out." He frowned briefly, as if to put all that nonchalance to the lie. "You sure you'll be okay?"

"Sure I'm sure," Hardcastle blustered, then winced slightly, then covered that as efficiently as he could. "They got nurses here and everything, you know."

"And you've got a call button, so use it," Mark said sternly. Then he took a deep breath. "Okay, then, see you tomorrow."

"I'll be here." Hardcastle smiled.

Mark kept his chin down as he headed for the door, edging past Frank and into the corridor with only a quick glance back. The lieutenant found himself stepping lively to catch up with him by the elevator. Mark had already punched the "down" button but said nothing until they were both inside and the doors closed behind them.

Then he muttered, "It's gotta be the pain meds."

"Huh?"

"All that nonsense in there—I was twelve or thirteen when I had those crazy ideas about how'd it'd be when I met up with my dad again." Mark grimaced. "I'm not a kid."

"He didn't say you were."

"Hah, he thinks it." Mark shook his head. "I suppose I am, to him. A kid, I mean."

"How long were you out in that hallway?" Frank asked cautiously.

Mark lifted his chin and cast a piercing look in Frank's direction. "Long enough. Would it have been better if I'd come strolling into the middle of all that?"

"I suppose not," Frank admitted.

"He told you about my old man, huh?"

Frank tried not to look guilty. "Some, yeah. He said you two weren't anything alike."

The look had turned into a stare. There was a long beat of silence and a puzzled frown before Mark said, "_Huh_. That may be the nicest compliment he ever gave me." The frown flattened into a thin smile. "'Course the competition's pretty thin. Anyway," he sighed, "it's gotta be the pain meds."

"He said that last year, the thing about you and your dad not being alike. It was right after you two got back from Atlantic City."

Frank was immediately aware of a rise in the tension. He was relieved when the elevator doors opened. He took a few steps out into the lobby, hearing Mark's slower gait behind him.

"What else did he say?" Mark muttered.

"Okay," Frank turned and the younger man pulled up short, "it's been a rotten week and rotten weeks tend to bring up all kinds of thoughts about other rotten weeks. That's just how it is. That's probably why Milt's up there thinking you might want to know where your dad is and what's going on."

"I told you, I'm over all that. I've been over it for, what, almost six months now."

"And I'm sure you didn't send out a memo, right?"

Mark bit down hard on whatever he'd intended to say. Frank finally eased back a step and flanked him, starting up slowly toward the lobby doors and talking again, slow and calm.

"He didn't tell me all that much back when it happened. He was just wondering if he ought to sic me on tracking your dad down again."

"God, no," Mark exhaled.

Frank nodded sagely. "That's pretty much what I told him."

"Why would he think that?" Mark sounded quietly exasperated. He shook his head tightly and then looked sideward at Frank. "Listen, you two talk about me behind my back all you want, just as long as you tell him Sonny Daye is _not_ on my 'to-do' list anymore." He shook his head again and then lifted his gaze to the ceiling. "It's gotta be the pain meds. He's so goofy."

Frank suppressed a chuckle. Mark turned toward him with a sharply suspicious expression.

The lieutenant suppressed what was threatening to become a grin. They'd reached the lobby doors, though Mark was now lagging behind a bit.

"Ah," Mark murmured, and ostentatiously patted his jacket down with his free hand as he said, "my magazine, musta left it upstairs."

"You told him you were going home," Frank pointed out.

"He'll be asleep. And when he wakes up, he won't remember I said I was leaving. It's the pain meds."

"And the garbage cans?"

"Just a couple of pizza boxes. I haven't been home much."

"There's some irony there," Frank observed. "And you might want to be careful who you call goofy. At least _he's_ got the pain meds for an excuse."

Mark didn't budge.

"All right. Go on," Frank waved him off. As he leaned on the panic bar, he could see Mark already hustling back to catch the elevator.

The lieutenant smiled to himself, shook his head, and turned up his collar against the cooler air as he headed into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**January 6, 1986**

Frank thought it was a bad sign. When Milt had said he planned on staying on at the hospital that night, the surgeon hadn't tried to dissuade him. The lieutenant was hesitant to point out to his friend that he'd been on his feet for a day-and-a-half. Saying that would only underline the fact that Mark had lain undiscovered for nearly twelve hours after being gut-shot. The surgery he'd just undergone was only the first hurtle, and things would almost certainly get worse before they got better.

And here they were, parked in the visitors' lounge again, waiting for Mark to be moved from the recovery room to a bed in surgical intensive care, with Milt restlessly roaming from the chair to the window and back again every ten minutes or so. Millie Denton, his recently-hired housekeeper, was still there, too. Frank was vague on the details but assumed she had some prior connections to Mark that would explain this current vigil.

Still, there seemed to be more than simple concern there. If Frank could have thought of even a single good reason that would explain it, he'd have said that there was an air of guilt about her, and this despite his having heard Milt muttering some non-specific thank-you's to her during the course of the long afternoon.

Maybe she was just the sort who felt guilty if she was idle. Even on what must have been the brink of exhaustion, she was still restlessly worrying a handkerchief, twisting and untwisting it in her lap. Hardcastle seemed to take notice of it as he returned from his latest studying stare at the parking lot below. He tilted his head slightly, as though he were considering her for the first time.

"You should go home, get some rest. We can call a cab for you." He was reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.

"I'm all right," Millie said quietly. "I'll be all right. I want to see him. If I go home now I won't be able to sleep."

The judge frowned, as if he'd heard more than she'd said. Frank had no idea what it was all about, only that Milt cast a sharp glance his way before stepping a little closer to Millie and looking at her very intently.

"Do you think he'll be okay?"

It was an odd question, or maybe it was the utterly sincere way in which he'd uttered it. There'd been nothing casual about it, and he received no casual assurances in reply. Millie stared up at him, or maybe it was _through_ him, her expression briefly frozen. Then she blinked once and became reanimated with a slight shake of her head.

"I don't know."

Milt's own expression went flatter. He stepped away, cast an anxious look over his shoulder at the corridor to the SICU, and resumed his pacing. He hadn't quite made it to the window again before he turned back to the woman.

"Maybe you could find us some coffee. Might be a long night."

Millie nodded once and rose slowly.

He pulled his wallet out this time and handed her some bills. "The cafeteria's still open, I think."

Frank had no idea if it was or wasn't, but since it was down five floors and at the other end of the building, it sounded like a suggestion to take her time. Millie seemed to accept the unspoken instructions along with the money, only nodding again silently before she headed out in the direction of the elevator.

Hardcastle waited for the _ding_ of the elevator doors opening, then a moment longer until presumably they'd closed again. A half-beat after that he turned toward Frank and asked, "Are you going by the office when you leave here?"

Frank understood his concern. Even amid more pressing ones, Milt wouldn't lose track of the pursuit of justice.

"Price and Falcon's arraignment and bail hearing is set for ten a.m. I'm on top of it."

"Yeah, I know, thanks," Milt said hurriedly. "But there's something else."

"We've got a forensic accountant looking at Falcon's off-shore deposits, and I made sure they preserved the chain of custody on the bullet they took out of Mark—" He pulled up short, seeing Milt swallow hard and turn a shade paler.

"You oughta sit down—"

"Nah," Milt shook his head sharply, "I'm okay."

"Sure you are, but what's Mark gonna say when he wakes up and sees you looking like five miles of bad road?"

"I'm _fine_." Milt took a deep breath and spared another glance toward the corridor from which no further news, good or bad, had yet come. He turned back to Frank, his face more set—more _urgent_. "Listen. I want you to do me a favor, will ya?"

"Sure," Frank ducked his head. "Anything. What?"

"I dunno if you'll come up with much, but if you'd stop by the office on your way home and run a name for me . . ."

There was a hesitation. Frank cocked his head, trying to figure out what angle of the Falcon-Price case he might've missed.

". . . Daye, Sonny Daye, McCormick's dad, remember?" Hardcastle muttered. "You might want to throw in 'Tommy Knight' for good measure. I don't know if he sticks with any of 'em for very long." He was speaking faster, as if he wanted to get it all out at once. "Might draw a blank, but I think we gotta try."

Frank had been so blindsided by the request that he failed to notice it was his turn to respond. It took him a second to realize that Milt was looking at him impatiently.

"Ah," Frank fumbled, "why now?"

He realized his error the moment the words left his mouth. It was as if he'd run head-long into Milt's carefully constructed set of defenses, the ones that kept his worse fears walled off and definitely unspoken.

"I think," the older man began, this time slowly, "I think if somethin's gonna happen he oughta know. He oughta have a chance to be here . . ."

"_Why_?" Frank said bluntly.

Milt frowned at him, but it took a moment for his to collect himself before he finally blurted out, "To see him . . . one last time."

"Okay," Frank absorbed his friend's stubborn stare without flinching, "first of all, I think you're hanging the crepe a little prematurely, here. Yeah, the surgeon said things might be rough, but Mark's a young, healthy guy and I think his chances look pretty good."

Frank thought he'd caught the quickest of glances in the direction of the chair that had been formerly occupied by his housekeeper, before Milt looked back at him, still appearing unconvinced.

"And, anyway," the lieutenant continued, "even if, God forbid, Mark does take a turn for the worse, what makes you think Sonny Daye deserves some kinda engraved invitation to come hold his hand?"

"'Cause he's his father. 'Cause it might be his last chance."

"'Cause if it was your kid you'd sure as hell want to be there," Frank observed with irritating accuracy. He took in a deep breath and shook his head. "Well, from all reports, Sonny Daye doesn't have a lot in common with you, so I wouldn't put too much weight on what you'd want."

"But McCormick—"

"Won't give two hoots if he wakes up and Mr. Daye is standing there or not," Frank said. "And he _is _going to wake up."

Milt still had his lips compressed in a tightly stubborn expression—though which part of the statement he was least convinced of wasn't clear.

"Look," Frank said patiently, "Mark's got a lot of friends. Hell, he has you."

"Yeah, _me_," Milt muttered. "Look where that got him."

"_Oh_," Frank nodded, "that's it, huh? You figure if you weren't around he'd've taken up accounting or something? Fat chance." Frank quirked a small smile. "No, sorry, his pre-Hardcastle track record looked just as bad, maybe worse. You oughta know that."

Milt ignored all that and segued back stubbornly, "Sonny deserves one last chance."

"Mark didn't think so."

"Huh?"

"Yeah." Frank shrugged. At least he'd shaken Milt from his determined rut. Of course it meant spilling a secret, and he was reasonably sure Mark _wasn't_ on his deathbed. "That's what he said, anyway."

"When?"

Frank shifted his gaze upward, wondering if there was some way he could change the details to protect the guilty, namely Mark—not to mention himself for not reporting any of this sooner. It didn't seem like it would do much good for either of them.

"Well," he said, casting a sharp look in Milt's direction, "it must have been that other time you got all obsessed with me tracking down his dad."

Milt's brow furrowed for a moment then suddenly flattened in apparent recollection, so obviously he hadn't been that out of it when he'd made the earlier request.

"You told him about that?" he asked indignantly.

"No," Frank figured in for a penny, in for a pound, "the cafeteria at St. Mary's _isn't_ open at night. He just went down the hall for the coffee that time, and was right outside the room when you started in about how he might need me to find Sonny for him."

"He heard?" Milt muttered, looking uncomfortable.

"Yup. Pretty much everything," Frank replied dryly. "And he had some words for me as soon as we were out of there. He never talked to you about it?" He shook his head abruptly and answered his own question. "Of course not. Too simple. 'Hardcase, I'm okay. I don't need anybody to chase down the bum who walked out on me . . . _twice_.'"

"He doesn't call me 'Hardcase' all that often," Milt grumbled.

"The rest, however, would be pretty much verbatim," Frank said, his expression firm. "He _is_ okay." He glanced toward the corridor, then back at Milt quickly. "And he'll be okay. I've got a feeling."

"You do, huh?"

"I do.

Milt still looked vaguely dissatisfied for a moment, but he finally nodded grimly. "Okay. But I hope to God you're right. No dad, not even Sonny, should have to hear that kind of bad news when it's already too late."

Frank sighed, realizing they were back to vague euphemisms. He was willing to leave it at that. Besides, no matter what happened, the one who really counted would be here to see it through.


End file.
